


Untitled traders ficlet

by calathea



Category: Traders
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny character study of Grant Jansky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled traders ficlet

Grant knows it bothers Donald when he asks about Magda -- makes Donald feel bad all over again, pricks at Donald's little balloon of guilt over being the kind of guy who stole his buddy's girl.

He likes to know, though, likes to know that she is fun to be with, that she smiles a lot, that he was right about how smart and nice she was. He likes knowing he was right about her.

Donald tells him what Magda talks about; that she goes to the movies almost every week, but never horror flicks; that she enjoys her job but doesn't like investment bankers very much because they tend to either yell at her or call her 'sweetheart', and sometimes both at once. That she grew up in Brampton, and her hair is naturally curly.

He thinks Donald might change her mind about bankers.

* * * * *

Grant asked a couple of times whether Magda ever mentioned him. Both times, Donald flushed a little, and said, yes, no, sort of, not anything, just, and then broke off altogether.

He finds himself imagining them sometimes, maybe having dinner, the kind of place where they put candles on the table. In dim light, like Grant's office, like a candle-lit restaurant, Donald's freckles stand out on his pale skin. The little flame will make Magda's hair glint gold and red. They will laugh, he thinks, young and bright and pretty together, and Magda will say how glad she is that it was Donald who came to the bar the second time.

* * * * *

The computer beeps at 10 p.m. to let him know the Nikkei has closed for lunch. There are still markets trading, of course, but Grant thinks his program can follow SIMEX and Sydney while he takes a nap and traders in Japan eat raw fish. He is strict with his machine, gives it only a very small budget, tells it to play nicely, and curls up in the corner.

He dreams. Clean white sheets. Long curly hair spread over the pillows. Smooth skin laid out. And Donald, his freckles lost in a light flush, his hair curling damply on his forehead, touching and being touched.

He wakes curled around the ache in his stomach. The room is lit blue by his screensaver, the shelves of cleaning products looming up in the shadows. He thinks about the park until his computer beeps again, ten minutes before the Nikkei re-opens.

Grant wishes he could wear pyjamas all the time at work. The thin material doesn't bunch and rub the way his other clothes do when he crams his whole body into his desk chair. His program is sulking, and has only made $103.67 in the whole time he was asleep. He mocks it gently, disengaging it from trade, and unwraps a bar of bitter-sweet.

He watches the Asian markets ebb and flow for almost an hour before a pair of rabbit ears appear in the middle of all the noise, and he makes $353,879.01 in fifteen minutes.


End file.
